No Shadows Fall

by L. J. LaBarthe

  “What makes you say that?” Uriel demanded.

  “They are a no-nonsense, tenacious people.” Agrat pulled her dark hair back into a pony tail. “And you’re a no- nonsense, tenacious Archangel. I’m really amazed you don’t like it here.”

  Uriel blinked. “Maybe I should spend more time here,” he mused. “Though it’ll be a damn miracle for a carbon ape to impress me.”

  “Do.” Agrat patted his arm. “I think you’ll be impressed with them. I mean, considering how cold it gets in winter, their refusal to give up to it and to fight it and stay warm and alive—that’s the sort of thing you’d do. You’d draw your sword and battle the weather if you felt there was a reason to.”

  Shateiel and Samael turned away to hide their identical grins as Uriel stared at Agrat in surprise.

  “I would not,” he spluttered after a moment.

  “Yes, you would.” Agrat grinned. “So, I found out where Hiwa is.” She changed the subject before Uriel could launch into a rant about how wrong she was and why.

  “Good. I hoped your ruse was not for nothing.” Shateiel’s smile turned into a frown, a foreboding expression that spoke volumes about how much he disliked Agrat’s performance for the benefit of a horny official.

  “Beloved, it was all to the good.” Agrat looped her arm through his.

  “Where is he, then?” Samael asked, eyes intent.

  Agrat sighed. “He’s in prison.”

  Uriel gaped at her, aware that Samael and Shateiel were staring at her in stunned amazement. “Why? I mean, what did he do?”

  “It seems that Ish’s eldest son is something of a hired mercenary.” Agrat shook her head. “What are we going to tell her? We can’t tell her Hiwa is a Russian gangster, can we?”

  “No.” Samael shook his head. “No indeed. If Hiwa wishes to tell her, then he should, but it is not for us to do so.”

  Uriel bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Sammy. I mean, she has a right to know.”

  “Let us tell Remiel, then. He can decide.”

  Uriel nodded. “Passing the buck. I’m all for that.”

  “Men!” Agrat rolled her eyes.

  “Which prison is Hiwa incarcerated in?” Shateiel asked.

  “Butyrka. Maximum security, of course.” Agrat sighed. “Apparently, he was caught leaving the scene of the murder of a very wealthy family related to one of the high-ranking members of the FSB—the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation.”

  “Fabulous.” Uriel drawled, shaking his head. “Well, let’s get our game faces on and go pay him a visit.”

  “We will have to wipe the memories of a lot of people,” Samael said. “If we go in as we are, as Archangels and angels, everyone will know. Everyone will talk. That could spread to the ears of Semjaza. We cannot allow that to happen.”

  “Excuse me,” Shateiel began respectfully, “but could we not instead create papers to say that we are taking him to trial or something? Something that would be less potentially harmful to the humans? As you say, Samael, sir, that would be a lot of memories to wipe. Would not guile serve us better?”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Samael approved. “What do you think, Uriel?”

  Uriel scowled as he considered it. “It’s better than anything else I can come up with. We’ll try it that way. So, what, we pretend we’re part of Russia’s prison service? What are they called, anyway?”

  Samael nodded. “Why not? And they are called the FSIN.”

  “Let’s just not cause an international incident.” Uriel grinned. “Raz would be really put out if he had to clean up after us.”

  “I’d be really put out that we botched so simple a mission,” Agrat retorted. “After all, we’re ancient. We’re not wet behind the ears baby angels, are we? We can do this easily. It’s not outside of our abilities or experience.”

  “As you say, lovely lady,” Samael said with a shallow bow.

  She laughed fondly and squeezed his hand. “So, shall we go to Butyrka?”

  “Let’s do that,” Uriel nodded, concentrating and blurring into the uniform of a high-ranking member of the Federal Penitentiary Service of Russia. The others followed suit, and Uriel straightened his official cap, squared his shoulders, and moved the four of them to Butyrka Prison.

  THE four angels walked down the corridor between the cells, their heads held high and their shoulders back. The uniforms they wore were those of the FSIN, Russia’s prison bureau, and they were starched, pressed, and immaculate. Agrat walked between her husband and Samael, dwarfed by their muscled bulks. She was glad of it, for the lewd catcalls and insults coming from the overcrowded cells in a variety of Cyrillic dialects and Chinese, Mongolian, and Vietnamese were loud and not a little crude.

  “My Archangel senses are tingling,” Uriel muttered as they walked.

  “Fee, fie, foe, fum, you smell the blood of a Nephilim man?” Agrat asked.

  “Yes. But without the rhyming.” Uriel shot her a tight grin, and she grinned back.

  The cells were full, cramped with sweaty, half-naked male bodies, most of them covered in the elaborate tattoos that were the badges of honor and rank in the Russian prison system. Many of the men had shaved heads, and not a few of them had scars and missing teeth. Quite a few of them were undernourished, the bones of their ribcages visible through their sallow skin.

  Agrat ignored the shouts and abuse as best as she was able as they followed the prison guard toward the cell that contained Hiwa. The guard was bored, overweight, and clearly not pleased to be dealing with four superior officers who had arrived in his prison wing unannounced. His walk could best be described as a languid stroll; it was obvious from the smirk on his face that he was enjoying the abuse being hurled at the four angels.

  Finally, after what felt like a year of walking on filthy, rough, uneven concrete, the prison guard stopped. He fumbled with a key chain on his belt and then unlocked a barred door and swung it open with a creak of rusting hinges.

  “Hiwa,” he said in a bored tone of voice, scratching the back of his head as he spoke, “you’re being moved. Get out of here.”

  As Agrat and her husband drew up behind the guard, she could see that the cell contained nearly two dozen men. They were all tall, muscled, and tattooed; some of them were smoking cigarettes that had been untidily rolled in grubby cigarette papers, and others were leaning against the wall, glaring at the guard.

  Hiwa came to stand in the doorway, his expression haughty. He had changed a great deal since he was a young man,

  Agrat saw. Behind her, Agrat could hear Uriel swear.

  “On whose orders?” Hiwa drawled, leaning against the steel bars of the doorframe. He wore prison-issue trousers that sat low on his hips, and his entire torso was covered in black ink tattoos. His dirty-blond hair was cropped short, and his blue eyes were full of suspicion. There was an ugly scar that ran down the left side of his face, from his temple to his chin, and there were more scars that broke the lines of tattoo ink on his body. He turned his head to the side and spat on the floor of the cell, then looked back at the guard.

  “Higher up.” The guard gestured to Agrat and Shateiel standing behind him,

  Samael and Uriel to one side.

  Hiwa looked at the angels for a long moment. “Fine.” As the guard held out handcuffs, Hiwa raised his arms, extending his hands, and the steel clinked as the cuffs were locked around his wrists. Stepping out of the cell, Hiwa glared belligerently at the angels as the door was slammed shut and locked behind him.

  Agrat frowned as she gazed at Ishtahar’s eldest son. “He doesn’t know who we are,” she thought to her companions.

  Uriel grunted. “As soon as we get him somewhere private, we’ll tell him.”

  “Here.” The guard shoved Hiwa at them. “Take him and go.”

  Samael stepped forward and took Hiwa’s arm. Without a word, they all turned and started back down the corridor to the accompaniment of more catcalls and insults. Some of the prisoners s
pat at Hiwa as they walked, but Hiwa ignored them. His entire posture radiated self- assurance. He walked with his head held high, a small smirk on his lips. At the end of the corridor, Hiwa paused and looked back at the cells with the jeering and spitting inmates. His smirk became a cold, calculating smile as he gazed at the prisoners, and for a moment there was silence. Then he laughed, a mocking sound, and turned away. The jeers resumed, louder this time, and Agrat exchanged a look with Uriel as they were led out of the prison wing and into the hallway beyond. The door between cells and hallway clanged shut with a loud bang, and Hiwa rolled his shoulders, affecting an expression of intense boredom.

  The guard led them through more heavy doors with security-coded locks. Agrat kept her expression as neutral as possible, but she was beginning to feel claustrophobic. The cream walls, ceiling, and floors felt oppressive, and the many concrete doors between the cells and the visitor rooms, hospital wing, and guard offices were coated in steel.

  Finally, they were escorted to a room to one side of the guard’s office and told to wait while Samael signed the transfer papers for Hiwa. The room was austere, the paint chipped and faded. There was a table and four chairs, and Hiwa sat down in one, stretching out his legs.

  “Got a cigarette?” he asked, his Russian flawless.

  “Yes,” Uriel said in English, “but I don’t think your mom would be happy to hear you’re smoking, Hiwa, son of Ishtahar.”

  Hiwa tensed, his eyes narrowing, and he leaned forward, his gaze never wavering from Uriel’s face. “Who are you?”

  “You don’t recognize us? Really?” Uriel shook his head. “How quickly they forget.”

  “It has been eons, Uri,” Agrat said. Hiwa had gone pale. “Angels?” he asked, his voice sounding a little strangled. “What the fuck are you doing here? I haven’t broken any of your stupid laws!”

  “We’re here because your father’s free,” Uriel said bluntly. “No, we don’t know how, before you ask. We’re looking into that. Your mom felt that it would be good if you and Ahijah visited, y’know, say hi, let her know you’re not dead or kidnapped by Semjaza. That sort of thing. Stuff that moms like to know about their kids.”

  Hiwa’s hands clenched into fists. “If he lays one hand on Mama....”

  “Relax,” Uriel said, pulling a packet of Sobranies from his pocket. He lit two and handed one to Hiwa. “We’re all staying on Iona, the Holy Isle, for the moment. Once Sammy’s finished signing the carbon ape’s million and one forms, we’ll take you there. I can see why forgery would be a better way of getting you out of here rather than us just busting you out. Less likely for word of it to get back to your daddy dearest.”

  Hiwa took the cigarette with a curt nod of thanks, and looked at each angel shrewdly. “He’s not my dearest anything, Uriel. He’s an asshole. This has got you all freaked,” he noted. “So, I know Uriel and I know Samael, but I don’t know you two.”

  “I am Agrat,” Agrat introduced herself. “This is my husband, Shateiel. Gabriel’s second-in-command.”

  Hiwa nodded. “Right. So, we’re going to Iona, then?” He suddenly laughed. “I bet Gabriel’s pissed.”

  “Yes.” Uriel exhaled. “To both. Any objections?”

  “Would it matter if I did?” Hiwa quirked an eyebrow in amusement.

  “Not so much.” Uriel grinned. “You’re Nephilim, so you don’t get that lovely free will gift thing.”

  Hiwa’s upper lip curled in annoyance, but he said nothing. The minutes dragged on, and finally he broke the silence. “Is Mama okay?”

  “She’s worried,” Agrat said before Uriel could answer. “She’s very concerned about what Semjaza will do.”

  Hiwa spat again. “That fucker. He should be dead.”

  “Amen,” Uriel agreed.

  “Apart from that, yes, she’s fine,” Agrat continued.

  “Good. She doesn’t know you found me in a Russian prison, does she?”

  “No. Whether or not she gets told is up to you.” Agrat shot Uriel a dark look. “You do have some right to choose.”

  Uriel snorted again.

  Samael entered the room then. “We should leave,” he said without preamble. “I have signed many forms, and I do not feel that lingering would be wise.”

  “Right. C’mon.” Uriel tugged Hiwa to his feet. “Try to look pissy.”

  “That’s not hard to do, Archangel.”

  Hiwa scowled.

  “I’m so happy for you. Move.” Uriel gave Hiwa a little shove toward the door.

  The group left the prison building, and Agrat looked over her shoulder. They were being watched.

  “I know,” Shateiel’s voice was soft in her mind. “I will encourage them to look elsewhere so that we may teleport.”

  “Thank you, love.”

  “Anytime, wife.”

  They walked around a corner, looking for all the world as if they were heading toward the parking lot. Shateiel reached out, and Agrat could feel him using his power to distract the suspicious guards. Then Uriel and Samael vanished, taking Hiwa with them. Agrat slipped her hand into her husband’s, and Shateiel smiled fondly at her and moved them from Russia to Iona.

  REMIEL was with Michael when Uriel, Samael, Shateiel, and Agrat appeared in the parlor of the cottage they were staying in. Hiwa was between them, and his eyes grew wide as he took in the figures of the Chief Archangel and Remiel.

  Michael said nothing, merely pulled in clothing and held the items out to Ishtahar’s son. Remiel watched as Hiwa cautiously took them from Michael’s hands.

  “There is a bathroom through that door there,” Michael pointed behind Hiwa. “You should wash and get changed before we take you to see Ishtahar.”

  “All right.” Hiwa turned on his heel without another word, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. said.

  “That was a nasty place,” Samael

  “Which?” Remiel asked.

  Samael sighed. “He was in a prison, Remiel. In Russia. What do we tell Ishtahar of this?”

  Michael sighed. “We tell her nothing. It is not our place to do so. Hiwa must tell her himself.”

  Remiel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ish is going to be heartbroken. What was he in for?”

  “Murder,” Uriel said bluntly. “He killed the family of a high-ranking member of Russia’s security organization, the FSB.”

  “Oh dear.” Michael sighed again. “That, too, he will have to tell Ishtahar. We cannot interfere. We can only be here for them both. This is a difficult enough time for them as it is.”

  “Yeah.” Remiel shook his head. “I don’t like this at all, guys. Hiwa in jail for murder and wow, with all those Russian prison tattoos he’s covered himself with, he’s been in jail before. A lot of times before.”

  “I know there is significance placed upon those tattoos,” Samael said, “but what do his mean?”

  “They are symbolic of his rank within the power structure of the crime world,” Michael said grimly. “Ishtahar’s son has risen very high in that society.”

  “The other prisoners seemed a little frightened of him,” Agrat mused.

  “That does not surprise me.” Michael looked out of the window. “Remiel, when he returns, take him to Ishtahar. I see no reason to keep them apart. He will tell her the truth of things, I am certain.”

  “I’m less certain, but I’ll take him to her.” Remiel leaned back against the wall. “What a mess.”

  “As you say,” Michael agreed.

  Hiwa emerged from the bathroom then, and Remiel took a deep breath. “Come on, then, scamp,” he said in as jovial a tone as he could muster. “Let’s go see your mum.”

  Hiwa nodded and fell into step beside Remiel as they walked out of the parlor. Remiel was privately relieved that the clothes Hiwa now wore covered the majority of his tattoos. Only the ones on the back of his hands and one that snaked up the right side of his neck were visible. Ishtahar would no doubt have questions, and Remiel was not looking forward to having the lov
e of his life ask him things about her son that he didn’t want to answer.

  “Ish?” Remiel pushed open the door of the comfortable living room, and as she stood up, he smiled warmly at her. “Hiwa’s here.”

  Hiwa’s reunion with Ishtahar was emotional. Remiel sighed as he watched the woman he had loved for so long rush across the living room, her dark hair streaming behind her in a wave. She wrapped her arms around her son and held him close, shaking. Hiwa embraced her in a hug, and the two spoke to each other in an undertone so low that the only way one could listen was to use Archangel powers to eavesdrop. Remiel didn’t want to do that. He wanted to give Ishtahar and her son some privacy.

  He quietly left the cottage and walked down to the beach to stand on the shore and watch the play of sunlight on the waves. Winter was coming; the breeze blowing off the sea was tinged with frost. Remiel squinted up at the wan sun peeking through the clouds, and gauged that there would be snow in the next few days.

  The fishing boats that supplied Iona with its main diet of freshly caught fish rocked in the gentle waves, and the inhabitants of the island bustled up and down its main street. They waved to him when he caught their eye, and Remiel smiled and waved back. Despite everything that was going on, he felt a great deal of peace here on this distant Scottish island, so far from the home he shared with Ishtahar in the US. The blessings and the hand of God were almost tangible here, something that you could reach out and touch.

  Remiel closed his eyes and raised his face toward the sky.

  “It is beautiful here, is it not?”

  Remiel smiled and turned to face Michael. “Yes. I wonder how I managed to miss this place.”

  “I confess I was thinking the same thing.” Michael smiled in return. “The world is so full of hustle and bustle, and our tasks are many. Places such as this, full of peace and joy and the touch of God, are as a balm to my Grace.”

  Remiel nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  “I take it you are here so that Ishtahar and Hiwa may spend some time alone?”

  “Yeah.” Remiel shook his head. “Considering what Sammy told us about where they found him, I’m worried. I’m worried as to how she’ll take it.”